


Thanatos, Eros

by lurkdusoleil



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, minor animal death, physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkdusoleil/pseuds/lurkdusoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanatos: the drive toward Death. Eros: the drive toward Life. They are not in opposition. They are a cycle. A perfect circle; balanced, always turning. Life always moves toward Death, and Death always leads to Life, reborn. They must exist side by side. They are always drawn together. When Kurt Hummel leaves school and gets into his car, his cycle begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanatos, Eros

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to unintentionallybadass and bluecloudsupabove for the beta, and thanks to magicalplaylist for the beautiful art ([view here!](http://magicalplaylist.tumblr.com/post/66047139571/thanatos-eros-by-lurkdusoleil-click-link-for)). And thank you to my readers--this is only a prelude, so I hope you'll enjoy, because I hope to write more.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of canon events from 2.06, physical injury, minor animal death, hints of depression

That’s it.

He’s had enough.

There’s rage in his chest, hot despite the ice in his veins and eyes, which remain dry despite the pressure. He doesn’t grab his phone from where it’s still lying in the hall. He doesn’t grab his bag. He doesn’t bother to tell anyone he’s leaving. He stalks through halls of distant stares and half-hearted glances and outright aversion to look his way. Eyes, eyes everywhere, facing all directions, but all oriented around him. He can feel it. He’s never felt stronger in these halls, but he’s never felt so vulnerable either, so unable to use the power. It’s too far inside him, building up, ready to burst open.

He’s _never_ felt like this. It’s like he’s been cracked, like Karofsky’s violation pushed him over an edge, like he fell to the floor and the pieces of him spread everywhere. He’s been able to fake it through the halls, but he can’t anymore. When he gets into his car, he starts trembling and crying. Frustration, regret, sadness, anger, confusion. Warring within him, but not against one another--all against him. He feels like a little statuette, porcelain figurine on a mantle that’s fallen too many times, knocked off by a careless elbow or the shaking of the walls. Pieces break off, and some get glued back on, some get lost altogether. And eventually, it looks intentional--ancient art without its arms, the mess a deliberate, broken beauty. But one can only shatter so many times before there’s more glue than porcelain, and he doesn’t feel much like Porcelain anymore.

He’s not paying attention to where he’s going. He just drives, turning when he feels the whim to turn, passing by houses and trees and not much else. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know where he’ll end up. He’ll just have to trust that the Navigator’s GPS will get him home when the time comes that he feels together enough to return.

He drives and drives and drives, further and further from Lima, heading away from the sun that is starting to get lower behind him. He wonders if anybody tried to contact him. He wonders what happened to his phone. He wonders if the Glee club even noticed his absence.

He’s on a long, straight back road near some forest with a lake peeking out behind the trees once in a while on his right. There are some houses on his left every quarter mile or so, quaint farmhouses and lots of fields. And then, his Navigator starts to sputter.

“What--”

It stalls, the engine dying. He pulls to the side as he coasts to a stop, half off the road and tilted into a bit of grass near some serious tangles of brush and trees. He curses, and notices his fuel gauge pushing all the way to E. He’d never even noticed the indicator for low fuel going off.

He tries to start it again, hoping he has enough fumes to at least get up the road enough to find a gas station, but nothing happens when he turns the key except for some weird noises that he knows his father would kill him for. He gives up with a sigh, pulling the keys and pocketing them. He’s going to have to walk.

He hops out and heads to the back, pulling his emergency bag--a duffle bag with a small roadside kit for the car, first aid, some supplies and tools, and a change of clothes should he need to get messy. There’s a bottle of oil, but no extra fuel--he doesn’t even have a gas can he can take with him.

He’s got his wallet, and his emergency credit card, though. He’ll just have to buy one and then trudge back with it. Just enough to get him back to the station so he can fill up and go home.

He locks the Navigator and then looks down--the duffle bag is still at his feet. He sighs again and lifts it over his shoulder--it might come in handy. It’s got an emergency blanket, an umbrella, some light snacks and a bottle of water. Who the hell knows how far he’ll have to walk. He’s not going back where he came from--he hadn’t seen a sign of civilization in miles, and he doesn’t want to end up swimming across the lake to get to some. So he turns south and starts walking in the direction he’d been driving.

The sun is seriously low, but it’s still light yet. He’d been driving for hours, winding about a long path to where he is now--somewhere outside of Columbus, if the signs he’d passed were any indication. And he’d been approaching it from the north, so he really had gone out of the way--probably in the widest arc he could manage, because he’s a fucking idiot who lost his mind and let some hulking remnant of the stone age get under his skin--

He hears a car behind him. He turns--he shouldn’t hitchhike, but he might at least be able to get directions, an idea of how far he has to go. He doesn’t want to end up going to one of the farmhouses, get kicked by a horse and buried in manure or something. This is probably his best option.

He turns as headlights approach, and puts his arm out to wave. He’s not dressed for visibility, but his skin is practically a reflective surface on its own, they should be able to see him--

_Zzzzooooom._

The car clips by far too fast, and too close to the edge. Kurt feels a painful impact, and his arm bursts into pain as he spins and falls off the side of the road, rolling down a faint incline before coming to a stop among some tall grass. He cries out, rolling onto his back and pulling his arm to his chest--his wrist is seriously damaged, swelling around a strange bump on the side. He’s lucky he was only clipped--probably by the damn mirror, why did he have his hand out like a fucking moron--

He gets up, swooning and realizing that he’s in shock, his body cool and feeling far too light. The pain has been swallowed, but it will return soon, and he needs help. It’s getting dark, he’s injured, tears fall from his eyes and he can barely see--he needs _help_ \--

He stumbles and looks around--he feels lightheaded and dizzy and he can barely stand. But there’s a rock, a little ways inward toward the lake--he can sit for a second, get his bearings, _breathe._

He fumbles toward it, his duffle bag still thankfully slung around his shoulder--he might have something in the emergency kit to help, _anything_ to at least stabilize his arm. He looks down, and his forehead crinkles as he realizes he’s stepping on some thick mushrooms.

Ew. His shoes are going to smell so weird.

He makes it to the rock and collapses down onto it, sharp edges making a serviceable seat, and he leans forward, head between his knees, and closes his eyes. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and waits for the world to stop spinning quite so much.

The air abruptly cools. It had been a warm day, but the sun is setting, and-- _damnit_ , of course a cold front would appear when he’s completely exposed, he’ll have to wear the weird shiny thermal blanket from the kit--

He sits up, and gasps.

Everything looks different. It’s nighttime, instead of late evening, and the sun couldn’t have set _that_ fast, could it? There are far too many stars, too, lighting everything up brightly--and he knows he’s too close to the city for that. Or maybe he’s further out than he thought?

But the trees are different--did he go too far somehow? He’s obviously disoriented, and he’s probably lost his way, he has no idea how to find the Northern Star and get his bearings, he might have to spend the night out here, unless he wants to go stumbling through these woods--and he thinks he can hear the water much closer than before, and what are these _trees--_

He stands and turns, looking around, and just before him is a small little house. A hut, really. Something whimsical and cute, like the little cabins they sell to tourists for far too much money in attraction-heavy little towns, but even smaller. It looks like it was assembled by somebody in desperate need of a ruler and a level and potentially a protractor, but it’s...it’s got charm.

It also wasn’t there a minute before. But there’s a flickering light inside, a lamp above its front door as well, and Kurt can’t go stumbling around in the dark, not when there’s someone who could potentially help him.

Or murder him and bury him in the pretty flowers surrounding the house. He’d probably make great fertilizer.

Kurt takes the chance. He trips his way up to the cabin and finds himself leaning against the door jamb as he knocks with his good hand, holding his injured right wrist to his chest.

No answer.

“Hello?” Kurt calls, knocking again. “Please--please help, I need help--”

Of course, they could always think _he’s_ a murderer trying to get inside via pity.

“My car’s out of gas, I lost my cell phone, I’m injured, please just call 911,” he shouts. “I don’t need to come in. Just--just please--”

He slumps heavily against the door, and it flies open, the latch clicking weakly. He falls in, landing thankfully on his good side, but sobbing once he feels the pain radiating up from his hip.

“Please--”

This is the worst day ever. He cranes his neck and looks around--the place is _tiny_ , and as far as Kurt’s concerned it’s primitive--there’s no electricity. There’s just a bed, a wood stove, a tiny table, and a ladder up to what looks like a crawl space. There’s not even a _bathroom--_

Nor is there anyone home. The lamp on the wall is an oil lamp--running, yes, but unless someone is very good at hiding, they aren’t here.

Kurt pushes himself inside, feeling too weak to rise now, and nauseated from the rising pain over his body. His shock has subsided enough to cripple him again, apparently, because he can’t move without a sharp burning flying through his limbs. But he kicks his way inside and shuts the door against the cold before he passes out, right there in the middle of the floor.

The blackness is soothing.

\--

Kurt wakes in utter comfort. He’s warm, and wrapped up in something soft, and there’s a gentle light and a smell of apple pie in the air. He’s laid out on a soft surface and his wrist is feeling awful but not nearly as bad as before--and it’s--straight?

“Good morning!”

Kurt bolts up, gasping when he almost hits his head on the lamp on the wall above him. He’s lying in the bed of the cabin, just past the window and next to a ladder that goes up into the tiny little loft space. Ahead of him is a small, gorgeous man, with wild black curls and pale golden skin, dressed in a tight green shirt and brown capris. He’s barefoot, and his clothes do nothing to hide his tight, sexy little body, gentle curves at his belly and over his muscles, and an ample amount of ass. Kurt stares, and then blinks and shakes his head as the boy’s face turns to him, smiling brightly with lots of teeth and eyes like an amber-preserved forest.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m--where am I?” Kurt asks. It can’t hurt.

“Um...why don’t we save that question for after you’re up,” the boy suggests. He walks over to Kurt and grabs his good hand from the bed, shaking it. “I’m Blaine.”

“Kurt,” Kurt replies. “Did you--I’m sorry I kind of intruded on your home--”

“Nonsense,” Blaine says. “Nobody ever comes here if they don’t need to be here.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, but Blaine just smiles at him.

“How does your wrist feel? I’m afraid I couldn’t heal you all the way, something--um, something stopped me. But I made it as stable as I could, with what you had in your bag--”

Kurt lifts his wrist. It’s bound first with gauze, and then what looks to be the reflective triangle from his car emergency kit, still folded into a single thick line along the inside of his forearm, which is held tightly along its length with duct tape.

“I did my best,” Blaine says worriedly. “I’m--I’m not used to not being able to just heal things, I didn’t really know what to do--”

“It’s--it’s fine,” Kurt says. “I feel...it feels fine.”

It’s not swollen, it doesn’t seem out of place--

“I--made sure the bleeding stopped, inside,” Blaine says. “And while you were out I set the bone, but I couldn’t heal the fracture. Your body resisted.”

He looks at Kurt like Kurt will have an explanation, and Kurt just stares at him.

“Um--what? What do you mean, heal the fracture?”

Blaine’s eyes widen, and he blinks at Kurt.

“You--you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Anything. Oh, goodness. Um. Would you like some pie?”

He rises, and heads to the oven. He reaches inside and grabs the hot pie pan with his _bare hands_ and Kurt gasps, but Blaine doesn’t flinch. He just sets the pie on the table, and shuts the oven.

“It’ll have to cool, yes? It’s...it’s the only human food I know how to make,” he says apologetically.

Kurt’s brain rushes to keep up, and he latches onto a single word.

“Human?”

“Yes. Um. We should talk, then. Would you like to go out into the garden? Get some fresh air? It’s a beautiful day for you.”

The phrasing is strange, but Kurt’s feeling like everything is strange. Maybe he’s still passed out on the side of the road, and he’s dreaming, or maybe he died--

“Don’t be sad,” Blaine says, as Kurt rises, straightening his clothes one-handed until Blaine takes it in his own and strokes the back of his fingers with a gentle thumb.

He pulls Kurt gently outside, and Kurt breathes in--it’s the perfect temperature, the sun just risen above a huge number of trees all around them, in brilliant colors. He steps down off of the small porch of the cabin and stares.

“This--where am I?”

There are flowers and different kinds of grass everywhere, the rock he’d sat on the night before off to one side, surrounded by a circle of mushrooms. But this is _not_ the flat green and brown mess between the road and the lake in the middle of Ohio. This is a _huge_ clearing surrounded by massive trees, a creek--or maybe it’s a small river--bubbling across one edge, flickering in the light peeking in through the leaves. This--this can’t be _real--_

“You--you seem to have come in through the ring,” Blaine says, pointing over at the rock and the mushrooms. “I don’t know if you hear of them often in the human world, but it’s a faerie ring--”

“Like--like little mythical creatures? With wings and...they glow and trick people and...what?”

Blaine laughs.

“The Fae come in all shapes and sizes,” he says. “You really don’t know? You’re at least half yourself.”

Kurt whirls around.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re--you’re like me,” Blaine says. “You’re not...human. Not entirely, I mean I think you’re half. But the other half is Fae. I’m...not sure what kind. Was one of your parents...strange?”

Kurt thinks about Burt, the most normal person to ever exist, and then shakes his head. His mother--he can’t remember much about her--

“I don’t--my father is definitely human; my mother _had_ to be--”

“Did she die?”

Blaine asks with sympathy, but without pity, and Kurt relaxes. It’s...nice, to not be treated like he’s fragile because of it.

“Yes,” he says. “When I was eight.”

“And let me guess,” Blaine says. “You don’t remember much about her? Maybe only one or two details? Her hair, or her eyes, or--”

“Her smell.”

Blaine smiles.

“When Fae interact with humans, we’re...ignored,” he explains. “Humans can’t really...process us, because they don’t have any magic. So it’s hard for us to fit in on that side. We mainly stay over here. If we do need or want to go over, though, we use the rings--like that one.”

Kurt breathes deeply. This--this can’t be real, but he has to try to understand, because he’s _seeing_ it, it’s right before his eyes.

“Why don’t humans fall into them all the time, then?”

“No magic,” Blaine says. “They can’t cross without it. Somehow, you stumbled across one, and your magic acted to take you here. To...to bring you to me.”

Kurt looks over at Blaine, just noticing that the tips of his ears are gently pointed, peeking out through his curls.

“What are you?”

Blaine gestures around his clearing in the forest, all the flowers and trees and birds twittering and rustling of animals and the whisper of water. This place is stunning, huge and colorful--paradise.

“I am Life.”

Kurt stares.

“Life.”

“Yes. Sort of. Every few thousand years, a guardian is chosen--two, actually. A guardian of Life, and a guardian of Death. I guard Life--I was chosen at birth, born special. I have Life magic, and my only job is to maintain this place. It’s...it’s the center of all things.”

Kurt starts to lose his breath, so he walks back to the porch of the cabin and sits on a step. Blaine sits right before him, folding his legs up beneath him on the ground. He puts his hands on Kurt’s knees and looks up at him earnestly.

“I--you’re still so sad,” he says.

Kurt looks into those eyes, and Blaine _sees_ him. He’s not looking past him. He finds himself tearing up, crumpling.

“I’m sorry,” he says thickly, sniffling. “I don’t usually just...cry in front of strangers--”

“It’s okay. I just don’t want you to be sad anymore.”

Kurt sobs, and Blaine holds his hands and brings them forward, kissing them, very careful with his right wrist, only touching his fingers and never pulling, simply guiding. Kurt pulls himself together, but Blaine is just waiting patiently, as though Kurt has all the time in the world in which to calm down.

“So...I’m sad.”

Kurt feels foolish, but Blaine nods.

“Why do you feel sad?”

Kurt takes one more look into those eyes, looking up at him so gently, so sincerely, looking _interested_ and _understanding_ and this man apparently healed him and baked him a pie and took care of him and--

The whole story pours out. How different he’s felt all his life, how he’s been shunned for being gay, how he’s been bullied, even about the kiss Karofsky had given him the day before, against his sworn oath never to tell a soul. Blaine just listens, gently rubbing his thumb over Kurt’s knuckles, occasionally leaning down to kiss them when Kurt says something particularly painful.

“I just--don’t know how to keep living,” Kurt says. “My friends are all convinced I should just… _get over it._ How do I get over this? How do they not see how much it hurts? And now I’m lost and _here_ and--”

He breaks down crying again, and this time, Blaine guides him up and then wraps him in his arms.

“I’m so sorry for your pain, Kurt,” he whispers, and lets Kurt cry.

But Kurt doesn’t let _himself_ cry for long. Blaine feels good, and smells amazing, and Kurt doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. He pulls away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Never,” Blaine says firmly, and then smiles to take off the edge. “I--I think you feel so different because you _are_ different, Kurt. You’re special. You weren’t meant to live in that world.”

“You’re telling me,” Kurt huffs. “I’m going to New York as soon as I can--”

“No, you misunderstand,” Blaine says gently. “Kurt, I’m going to tell you something, and you might not like it at first. But I hope you’ll try to understand.”

“What is it?” Kurt whispers, suddenly afraid.

Blaine looks at him, holding eye contact, and Kurt feels surety seeping down to his bones. This _is_ real. Those eyes would never lie to him. He knows it like he knows his own name, like he knows his own voice and his own mind and his own skin.

“You’ll never fit in,” Blaine says. “No matter where you go, you will always be different. You will always stand out, and sometimes it might be in a good way--there are people in the world who would appreciate your gifts. But you’ll never truly feel at home.”

“Why not?” Kurt asks, a bit stung. “Because...because I’m half-faerie?”

“Fae is the technical term for the people, faerie is to describe something we make,” Blaine corrects with a small smile. “You’re half-Fae. And you were born to be special. But you’re not just special because you’re Fae. I knew the moment you came here.”

“What do you mean?”

Blaine strokes his cheek.

“Kurt, I’ve been looking for you forever,” he says. “You’re--you’re the other half, you complete the cycle. I was born to keep Life in its place here. But for the past seventeen years, nothing here has died. It’s been out of balance, because the new spirit of Death didn’t find its way here in time to replace the last one.”

Kurt actually chokes on his surprise, swallowing saliva into his lungs and coughing violently. Blaine strokes his back and holds his good hand, and when he recovers, he rises up, voice hoarse.

“You’re telling me I’m _Death?_ ”

“Sort of?”

“Oh my god.”

“Not like--not like a reaper,” Blaine amends. “You’re a force. You have Death magic. It’s not bad, Death isn’t evil, and I know humans think that out of fear. But--but everything has to begin, and everything has to end. My job is to maintain the beginning. You found your way here, of all places, because it’s your job to maintain the end. Kurt, you belong here. No one else can enter this clearing without permission, and you came in all on your own.”

“But--but I have a _life_ ,” Kurt protests. “I have school, I have plans, I’m going to New York to be a star--”

“Kurt, I don’t think you understand,” Blaine says. “If you want acclaim, there is no more in existence than there is for the two of us. We hold the entire _universe_ together. And I don’t know why you were chosen, someone from the human world, but--”

Kurt shakes his head.

“That’s too much,” he blurts out. His certainty starts to wither into doubt. He knows he’s special, but this is ridiculous. “You said it. I’m just a kid from Bumfuck, Ohio, and this can’t be real--”

“I can prove it to you.”

Kurt stops babbling, and looks at Blaine carefully.

“How?”

Blaine grins. “Let’s eat some pie--it should be cooled--and...get our strength up. And then I’ll show you.”

\--

Over the pie, Blaine explains some more that he apparently thinks Kurt needs to know. Kurt eats slowly, trying to listen and take it all in.

Blaine is the third spirit of Life to be born, and Kurt would be the third spirit of Death. They always come in a pair, and live together in their little clearing, maintaining balance. Blaine, born to a world where everyone knows the existence of this place, was sent to this clearing and taught here by the previous spirits in their previous bodies before they passed on--he received the spirit of Life at the age of eight, the same time Kurt received Death, just after his mother’s passing. Kurt wonders if he’s the reason for her death, but only until Blaine shakes his head and touches his hand before continuing on. Which is...reassuring, despite how little sense it makes. How little sense this _all_ makes.

But Blaine still tries to explain, despite Kurt’s increasing bafflement. They belong together, he says, making Kurt’s breath catch in his chest. Without one of them, all worlds are out of alignment--without either one of them, life and death stall, and people suffer. There’s no way for spirits to pass on, and the world changes because of it--wars and pain and suffering on a whole other level than when left to its own devices in a natural state. It happens anyway--people are free to choose, and often they choose evil, to balance the good--but if there’s no balance to it, it tilts, and if left that way, destruction reaches extreme levels.

“What if I refused to do it?” Kurt asks, afraid. Afraid of the question, afraid of the answer. “Would the world...end?”

“No,” Blaine says. “You’d pass normally, though your lifespan would probably be...short. This magic inside you, this is its home. It will always call you back here. But if you resist, it will try to leave you, and mine will try to leave me, to reunite with it. When Life and Death are together again, they’ll pass to other guardians, though--they wouldn’t be able to return to us. We’d be...damaged. Um...irreparably.”

So he’d die. And Blaine would die too, then. He’d as good as said it. And it’s just too much. It’s too much responsibility. How can a teenager handle it? How can he have the lives of even the two of them over his head, and no less the lives of every soul in every universe? If what Blaine says is true, he has...an obligation, a responsibility. But how is he supposed to deal with that, Kurt Hummel from Lima, Ohio, who can’t even handle high school?

“Come on,” Blaine says. “I’ll show you what you can do, okay? I’ll show you your power. And you can decide if you want to stay. You always have a choice, Kurt.”

Blaine guides him to the edge of the clearing, and there’s a low hanging branch from one of the trees, a ramshackle birdhouse hanging from it.

“I made this for one of the creatures that should have passed on,” Blaine says. “But without you here to help, I can’t take his spirit and pass it on to its next cycle of life. I can’t draw spirits out--only you can do that.”

He reaches in and pulls out a little bird, bright blue feathers slightly out of place, its tiny chest moving very faintly.

Kurt reaches out, and he can _feel_ its pain.

“What do I do?” Kurt asks, shaken.

Blaine puts the tiny thing into Kurt’s good hand, and places his other carefully over the top of it, enclosing it.

“Just--reach. I know it might sound complicated or impossible, but if you focus, it should come naturally to you. I know you can feel its spirit--it’s in a lot of pain. Reach into it, and just--take it out.”

“I’m going to kill this bird.”

“Yes,” Blaine says. “But you’re also giving it a new life. This one has ended. You’re not ending its whole existence. You’re allowing a new one to begin.”

Blaine puts his hands on Kurt’s shoulders and peeks over, tucking his chin over and leaning his temple into Kurt’s ear, his chest barely brushing Kurt’s back. Kurt breathes him in, _feels_ him. The touch is a paradise all its own.

“That’s all Death is, Kurt,” Blaine whispers in his ear. “A chance to be reborn.”

Kurt nods, and looks down at his hands. It’s true, he can feel the pain, and he focuses on it. It’s like a buzzing between his hands, an ache that spreads into him, and the harder he thinks about it, the easier it is to feel. Finally, he just-- _latches._ In his head, down through his right palm, he grasps the little hum of energy within the bird, and draws it out. When it raises up, the air around it _shivers_ , wavering like heat rising from the earth, the faintest light within. When it’s held in Kurt’s hand, the bird stills, and Blaine reaches out, simply taking the energy from his hand and releasing it up into the air above their heads.

“Now it can find a new home.”

He and Kurt bury the bird, a tiny little grave beneath the tree. When it’s filled, they stare down at it, and Blaine reaches for Kurt’s hand.

“You’ve just done something so beautiful, Kurt,” he whispers.

Kurt finds himself in agreement. The moment he’d done the impossible, the moment he’d _touched_ a _soul_ , he’d felt calm and satisfaction unlike anything he’s felt since he’d been a child in his mother’s arms. This is what he was meant for--it feels more right than singing, than fashion, than feeling the attention he’s always desired. He feels a deep peace inside himself.

But he knows it comes at a price, if he wants to keep it.

“What about my family?” he asks. “My friends. I’ll--I’ll have to leave them behind.”

“You can--you can say goodbye, if you’ve decided,” Blaine says. “I mean--time moves differently here, usually. It would take years here to pass a second outside while we’re both here. But if you leave, time will pass the same in both worlds for a while. You can take a few days to go home, to...think about things. Talk to your father, your friends and family. And you can make a decision. You won’t leave me waiting forever, either way. It’s your choice. I’ll...I’ll be here for you. And I’ll be hoping that you won’t say goodbye to me.”

Kurt turns to Blaine, looking him over, and then he smiles, breathless. Blaine, there for _him._ It’s...a nice image. A nice _feeling._ It’s...everything he’s ever wanted, actually.

“And...if I come back? What will happen then?”

Blaine smiles back at him, so beautiful and happy.

“We’ll live here,” Blaine says, pouring out so much joy. “We’ll live however we choose, Kurt. I’ll teach you what you need to be taught. And we’re not trapped here, we can...look at other worlds, we can interact and visit if we want. We’ll age at a slower pace, and we’ll live thousands of years while eons pass on the outside. And...and I’d do my best to make you happy.”

Kurt feels his shoulders drop, relaxing, and he grins. He can feel himself blush.

“So...we’d spend lifetimes together.”

Blaine swings their joined hands.

“We were meant to do it side by side,” Blaine says. “And you’re more right than you know. The spirits, they’re the same ones from the beginning of time. Different bodies. Different lifetimes. But we’re always meant to come together.”

Blaine leans forward and kisses Kurt gently on the cheek.

“We were always meant to find each other, Kurt.”

Kurt bites his lip. He’d always dreamt of a beautiful boy saying that to him, but to have it a reality--his heart feels like it’s going to hammer out of his chest and throw itself at Blaine’s feet. This is every story of love at first sight he’s ever seen, isn’t it? This is what it felt like. And despite his cynical side chiming in that this is _ridiculous_ this only happens in _stories_ \--well...hasn’t he always wanted the stories to be true? Why would he ever deny it happening for him, like he’s dreamed, like every fantasy that lulled him to sleep since he was a child?

How could he ever say goodbye to that?

“Do you want to stay a little while, or would you prefer to go now?” Blaine asks gently, seeming to sense that Kurt had made up his mind--the settle of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, how he always shifts when he’s decided something. _Blaine has been watching his mouth--_ “It’ll still be the same moment as when you left back in that world, and remember, time will pass at your pace here until you return.”

Kurt looks back at the ring of mushrooms, and then at the cabin, before he turns back to Blaine.

“I’ll...go now.” If he doesn’t, he’ll just end up staying longer and longer, putting it off-- “Explain things to my dad, say goodbye. Figure out what to tell everyone else. But...I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Blaine grins, and leans forward, kissing Kurt for real this time, lips on lips, gentle and sweet and the first kiss that Kurt deserves.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says, squeezing Kurt’s hand once before releasing him. “And when you get back, we can figure out how to heal your arm together. I’m pretty sure we just have to combine our magic, and--”

“And I can teach you to cook more than apple pie,” Kurt says wryly, and Blaine laughs.

“I look forward to it.”

\--

When Kurt comes back to the other side, it’s still evening. He doesn’t bother being afraid this time--he marches right across the road and up to a farmhouse, knocking and explaining to the sweet older woman who answered the door what happened. She allows him to use her phone, and then sit and drink tea with her until his father arrives two hours later with the tow truck and a stern expression.

“Kurt, what the hell happened? You leave school without saying anything to anyone, you call me hours later broken down on the side of the road--and what the hell is on your arm? Kid, I--”

Kurt hugs Burt right there on the side of the road, hard and sincere.

“Did you know Mom was different?” he asks, before Burt can reprimand or question him further.

Burt pulls back and eyes Kurt warily before a resigned expression settles on his face.

“You gonna tell me how you know whatever it is you know?”

Kurt smiles.

“Dad,” he says. “I met someone special.”


End file.
